That Which Was Lost by Samantha Price

Author:Samantha Price
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Psalm 23:4

Detective Crowley pulled his car into the lot and sat in his car watching the crowd. Getting a feel for a place and sensing the vibe and energy is something he’d learned early on in his detective work. Being a good detective is one part evidence and two parts gut. ‘You’ve got to use all of your senses, or you’ll miss something,’ his mentor had told him once, years ago. Following that advice, had always worked for him.

The first thing he noticed was that the sun was shining. This was strange because in all his years he’d never been to a funeral where the sun was shining. No matter what the day before had looked like weather-wise, and no matter what the skies did the following day, Mother Nature had a way of always making sure it rained and was gray during funerals, but not today. The short sleeves of the mourners and the lack of bobbing black umbrellas, sheltering mourners from the sky’s tears, was noticeable and odd.

Knowing what he knew about Preston Judge, he wasn’t surprised in the least. It’s almost like the world has rid itself of a creep, he thought, and the weather is helping us celebrate.

Making his way through the people, he aimed for the graveside funeral tent and took a seat behind the first row, which would be reserved for family. After a few short moments, the grieving family arrived. He saw Mrs. Judge right away and studied her face from behind his sunglasses. She looked sincere in her mourning; he didn’t get any impression that her tears were anything but legitimate. He was glad that Mrs. Judge hadn’t seen him.

Mrs. Judge was sitting in her chair sniffling and he noticed a long, lean arm was wrapped loosely about her shoulders. His gaze traveled up the arm to the face of the person to whom it belonged. Short, brown spiky hair at the top gave way to the adolescent pimply skin of a young adult. There were no tears sliding out of the eyes of the youth, no puckered frown to indicate mourning, just an arrogant young man’s face. Must be the son, the detective thought. He made a mental note to check him out.

The sermon was long and Crowley cursed the glare of the sunshine because everyone kept their sunglasses on. It was hard to read people when he couldn’t see their eyes. Picking out any suspicious, nervous glances would be difficult, and he wished that it had rained. Mrs. Judge sniffled the entire time and her son dutifully handed her tissue after tissue, keeping one arm about her shoulders.

When the crowd thinned out and the creaking of the pulley could be heard lowering Preston’s casket, the detective stood and looked at the mourners. It was a crowd of around eighty people or so, and it was difficult to tell who everyone was.

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